Evening at the Hermitage

When the story was done, Anasūyā took Sītā in both her arms and kissed her on the head. Your words were clear and sweet and wonderful, she said. I have heard all of how your svayaṃvara came about, and I delight in it.

Then she looked about her. The bright sun has set, she said, and the blessed night is coming on. The birds that scattered through the day for food are coming home, and you can hear the creatures settling to rest. Here come the sages, wet from their bathing, their bark garments dripping, their water pots in their hands. The smoke of the fire offerings rises, the colour of a dove, driven by the wind. The trees, so thin of leaf, look thick on every side in the dusk. The deer of the hermitage lie down by the river bank. The night is here, Sītā, bright with stars, and the moon has risen in his own soft light. It is time. Go back now and be Rāma's companion. You have made me very happy with your sweet telling. But first, dear child, adorn yourself here before me, so that I may be glad to see you in your divine ornaments.

Sītā put them on, and she looked like a daughter of the gods. She bowed her head to Anasūyā and went to Rāma. And Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa rejoiced to see the gift of love the old woman of austerity had given her, an honour that is rarely shown to anyone among mortals.